


A Little Joy

by UbiquitousMixie



Category: Will & Grace
Genre: F/F, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 12:02:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15388338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UbiquitousMixie/pseuds/UbiquitousMixie
Summary: Once a month, Anastasia Beaverhausen goes to a Gentlemen's Club.





	A Little Joy

**Author's Note:**

> Why is there so little Grace/Karen fanfic out there?? 
> 
> This little story came about after listening to "Do You Want To Touch Me There?" by Joan Jett. Please enjoy, and let me know what you think!

One night a month, Anastasia Beaverhausen pays Driver an extra $2000 to discreetly drive her to a specific location in the middle of Hell on Earth -- Time’s Square. Like any rational New Yorker knows, no one other than hillbilly tourists in Hawaiian shirts, cargo shorts, and Crocs flock to this godforsaken neighborhood teeming with lice-ridden Elmos. Her anonymity is all but guaranteed here.

Driver circles at a slow crawl until a space opens up directly in front of the Gentlemen’s Club. 

The brunette readjusts her sunglasses and steps out of the car, readying a crisp folded bill to slip to the bouncer checking IDs at the door. He recognizes her, as she recognizes him, and he holds the door for her. “Ms. Beaverhausen.” 

She nods at him curtly and steps inside. 

Upstairs, the club is crawling with men reeking of cheap cologne and sweat. She breezes by them, settling into a reserved booth in a dark corner. A waitress, blonde and statuesque, sidles up to the table. “The usual, Anastasia?” 

The brunette removes her sunglasses, tucking them into her Hermes handbag, and smiles. “Make it a double, honey.” 

The blonde flashes a smile. “You got it.” 

Green eyes scan the room, but there is no sign of her preferred dancer. Disappointed, she sits back against the booth and sighs. 

Karen Walker does not like to be kept waiting. 

Her dry martini materializes promptly, and Karen offers Delilah an extra hundred dollars for her trouble. The blonde grins and leans in close to her ear. “I’ll tell her you’re here.” 

Heat creeps up Karen’s pale throat and she nods tightly, taking a generous sip of her martini. It’s delicious and gone too quickly, and soon she’s sucking the alcohol from the olive until finally, she sees a flash of bright yellow across the room. 

She simultaneously cringes at the color and feels heat throb between her legs in anticipation. 

Karen feigns disinterest as the dancer appears at her table, her pale hand propped on her hip just above the lacy edge of her yellow baby-doll negligee. “I’ve been waiting for you,” the woman coos, and Karen rolls her eyes.

“Not as long as I’ve been waiting,” she bites back. “Let’s go.” 

Karen takes the dancer’s hand, allowing herself to be pulled to her feet and escorted to a room on the other side of the club, down a long, dark, discreet corridor that houses the private rooms. They take the last room on the right.

Karen sits on the leather couch against the wall, crossing her legs as she watches the other woman shake a chilled tumblr. She pours the fresh martini into a glass already prepared with an olive.

“Extra dry, just how you like it.” The dancer, Ginger, tilts her head with a grin as she brings the drink to her, her red hair falling over her pale, bare shoulder. 

Karen swallows, and not in anticipation of her drink. 

Anastasia Beaverhausen and Ginger the Stripper have an arrangement. Once a month, on a day of Karen’s choosing, Rosario sends a message to Ginger, instructing her to curl her sleek red hair and wear something hideous. She is to wear a specific perfume, a specific shade of lip gloss, and remain untouched by other patrons. And, after Anastasia arrives, Ginger will make three times her usual nightly rate. 

It’s a mutually-satisfactory agreement. 

Karen makes quick work of finishing her martini, handing the empty glass back to Ginger as she uncrosses her legs and sits back against the sofa. The room is immaculately clean (because Rosario has already come and gone) and as Ginger dims the lights and starts the music, Karen can allow herself to relax. 

Karen exhales slowly, her body coming alive with a mixture of vodka, pills, and arousal. She’s just high enough that the woman gyrating her hips in front of her could be mistaken for someone else, someone prettier, someone older, someone better…

“Is this what you want?” Ginger asks, her thumbs hooked around the spaghetti straps of the negligee, teasing the cheap fabric around her small, perky breasts. 

“What I want,” Karen says, her throat dry, “is for you to remember what we’ve talked about regarding the color yellow and burn that godforsaken rag before it touches me.” 

Ginger winks at her and removes the negligee, throwing it to the far corner of the room.

Karen gulps in approval. 

Ginger straddles Karen’s hips, swaying her breasts tantalizingly in front of her. These are just barely too large, too prominent, but Karen does not complain as one taut nipple brushes against her mouth. 

Once a month, Karen gives in to her fantasies about a particular redhead. It’s at once too much and not enough, and Karen curls her hands into fists at her sides because touching this woman, this Not-Grace, won’t be nearly good enough. 

Not-Grace grinds her hips down against Karen’s, and the music swells around them. Every girl and boy needs a little joy, all you do is sit and stare… 

Karen has gotten very, very adept at staring. She’s been watching Grace Adler for years, has watched her work and eat and cry and laugh...but she’s never seen her the way she wants her, sprawled out, naked, and flushed with arousal. 

But this is almost as good, and Karen takes her joy where she can get it. Ginger isn’t a bad Grace look-alike; she’s perfected the act over the past two years, and has been paid handsomely for it. 

And when Not-Grace turns and presses her back to Karen’s chest, slipping a hand into her g-string, Karen can almost conjure an image of Grace doing the same. 

Karen comes without touching herself, with only the friction of Ginger’s body moving above her own, her own thighs pressed together, and thoughts of Grace to push her over the edge. 

As always, it’s an unsatisfying release, but it’s enough to slake her thirst for another month. 

\---


End file.
